As a student, I learned the most through engaged and passionate discourse, not isolating myself in a studio or the library. While the joy and struggle of making design is usually a solitary and internal experience, the process of understanding and making sense of what we create happens in the discussion of the work with others. This discussion happens in the arena of the critique.

You know the scenario: The class is huddled around the work on the wall, giving it the once over. Then the instructor says, “Any comments?” Dead silence. Eyes wander, looking for the one person brave enough to start. Finally, a lone voice breaks the tension and comments on the piece in question. And then — as if this person’s bravado is a contagious airborne virus — a discussion has begun.

So speak up as much as you can. The excuses that I’ve heard for not speaking up are many and uniformly weak: “I hate the way I sound when I talk.” “I don’t have anything to say.” Or “I hate those people who are always speaking up.” The ability to verbally comment on design is a skill almost as important as creating the work. Inevitably, the quest to create great design depends on your ability to clearly and compellingly present the work — whether to an instructor, boss or client — and then to also be critical of its failings in order to make it better. There’s no place more apt than the critique to practice and hone these skills.

Be honest. Give praise where the praise is due, but acknowledge weak areas as well. No one takes criticism well, but this process is about making better work, not making new friends. An effective way to approach honest criticism is the good first, the bad second and humor all around. Starting with positive aspects of the work being discussed usually helps any negative comments go down a little smoother. Design is a serious endeavor, but critiques don’t have to take on a solemn tone. Humor and brevity help the person whose work is on the chopping block to relax. By endearing yourself to the presenter, he or she is more likely to listen to what you have to say. “While I don’t love the image you used in the poster, you must have almost gone blind trying to hand set all that cool little type!” Laughter and sighs of relief ensue.

There is speaking intelligently and clearly, and then there is speaking to show off and exclude. We’re in the communication business. No one benefits if your goal in commenting is to show off your advanced vocabulary skills and obsession with obscure postmodern theory. Critiques are about helping each other. This doesn’t mean you’re anti-intellectual, but is about speaking as smartly AND inclusively as possible. Don’t make an analogy to an obscure Jean Baudrillard theory if you can instead cite an example in everyday life that is equally insightful and helpful.

Just because a fellow student made a comment about your work doesn’t mean it’s a good comment. Is your instructor’s word the design gospel? Hell no! Stick up for your work. Yes, your instructors know more than you and have more experience. Yes, maybe that fellow student had an interesting point about your choice of typeface. But they impose their personal biases on your work whether they mean to or not. Challenge their assessment if you feel strongly that your design decisions are sound. Your reasons are as valid as anyone else’s. The range of subjectivity involved in design begs for you to stick to your guns. Everyone’s opinion can be disputed, even the instructor’s. Your confidence is vital to convincing others that your ideas deserve notice. Avoid being too overly antagonistic, though. It’s good to have allies in class, and your instructors deserve respect for their professorial status. No one is out to get you in a critique as much as it might feel that way at the time.

Lastly, your critique is your critique. So, direct it like a movie. Take control. Pass out a nicely designed project statement to everyone at the critique. If you want your work to be presented in an unconventional way, reserve that large wall space or courtyard outside. If a short interpretive dance will enhance our understanding of the project then screen a filmed excerpt or perform it yourself. The work is yours. Make your own show of it, too.

Starting in the hunter-filled woods of rural Pennsylvania, Eric Heiman embarked on a labyrinthine journey through the Carnegie Mellon architecture program, late nights of DJ spinning, record store employment and week-long vows of silence in the mountains of Maui that eventually led him to design school in the Bay Area. At the dawn of the new millennium he founded Volume (www.volumesf.com) with Adam Brodsley. Volume’s work has been extensively exhibited, honored and published around the world, and Eric’s writing on design has been published in Emigre, Letterspace and the AIGA’s online journal, Voice. Eric is also a Professor of Design at the California College of the Arts.

I’m a big believer in the power of friendships. When you have a best friend and you are both passionate about what you do creatively, you can achieve anything together. It’s like an unstoppable force. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like. Rachel was my best friend in design school at the University of Cincinnati. She was in Industrial Design and I was in Graphic, and we were full of enthusiasm, passion, and naiveté — the perfect combination for taking on anything.

It was the Christmas break before the last stretch of design school when I got an email from her. “Hey,” she said. “Got an idea for my thesis project. I want to make a proposal for an eco-design magazine. But not some old green granny crap. Mega dope shit.” Now, somewhere along the way, we scaled this idea up. Way up. No longer was this a mere thesis project but, instead, a full-fledged independent magazine launch. And why not? The concept was to launch a hip magazine for a generation of young, fresh designers that highlighted the most imaginative design. It also had to be eco-conscious. But not all in your face about it, simply using eco as a regular quality of good design.

In our minds it was a win-win situation for everybody. We could spread the word about cool young designers of our generation while mixing it up for the audience and advertisers by throwing in a few big peeps and making the world a better place through green design. During the process we got to skip working for the man by starting our own business. We were still at university, but in our minds we were sipping margaritas on the roof of our Brooklyn office. Genius.

Building the Foundations

Because neither one of us had any magazine or business experience, or THAT much practical experience, period, this was going to be a ground-up operation. But we weren’t about to let lack of “experience” knock us down and, besides, how much experience does one really need?

So Rachel and I created an identity for our magazine concept by figuring out who our audience was, who the competition was, and other ad-agency/business-y stuff like that. After a few gruelling sessions on thesaurus.com we christened the magazine Collected Matter, a name we thought sounded interesting, straight-forward, and not all in-your-face about being eco. I’m terrible with numbers, budgeting, and checking my account balance, so I was stoked that Rachel was on top of all that. Not that she was a business-planner extraordinaire, but her dad’s friend was a lawyer (somehow that was enough).

With a registered name and identity behind us we were now in full-fledged business partner mode. Behind the television in the living room we set up our “office,” which consisted of a plastic table with two unmatching plastic chairs. We were in overdrive and spent more and more time in the apartment, leaving only to hit essential classes and the grocery store. We were starting our days at eight and working til 1 or 2 in the morning, not even taking time to get out of our pajamas or brush our hair. We were feeling big time.

A Little Strength

With the addition of each contributor, we became more and more confident in our concept. We were gathering tons of material, but knew we had to get on the ball with the actual publishing part. We needed a little Strength.

Strength was a skateboarding magazine that a few of our friends had worked for in Cincinnati. It had started out independently and was distributed nationally, so we thought, “these are the guys to get some advice from.” Jeff, the intern-turned-editor who’d seen it from its beginnings, turned out to be amazingly helpful. He had tons of advice and answered all of our zero-experience questions without making us feel like idiots. He pointed us in the direction of a few good printers and told us how to figure out ad rates, etc. He even gave us a few dirty little tricks of the trade for beginners. His final words to us: “Best of luck and keep me posted! And hey, just so you know, this magazine stuff… it’s pretty damn tough! I’m serious. Make sure you are really, really up for this… It’s going to be hard as hell.” I had no idea.

85 Grand

Our next mission, in the fun world o’ budget land was to find out our printing costs. Fair enough. Now, part of the whole concept of this thing was being eco-consciousness so, obviously, this magazine had to be, at least, printed on recycled paper or the whole thing was going to be completely hypocritical. We wanted the whole eco shebang — non-toxic soy inks, wind-powered presses, that melty-biodegradable paper. I made up my dream list and got in touch with an eco printing rep in NYC. We were going to go for a 10,000 to 15,000 copy launch — all eco friendly. And then I got the numbers back — an $85,000 quote! Four times a year!

Needless to say, our jazzy printing rep in NYC didn’t hear from us again. We were moving on and cutting costs. Yes, we were shipping our business to good old Bob in Ohio. And maybe we could get some recycled paper with that? 40% recycled? Well. That’s better than nothing.

Excelling

Rachel had Microsoft Excel on her machine and I didn’t. Therefore, she was going to be in charge of this business-y stuff. We’d gotten our printing quote way down to what seemed like a semi-reasonable amount. We’d figured out our ad rates and now it was time to get down to business and sell some of these bitches.

I couldn’t recall in my mind how many times Rachel and I had had these conversations. “I mean, Nike, right? They are all about trying to eco up their image. I mean, they’d be so into this!” In our minds, we’d just pick up the phone and they’d already be on the other line with a blank check in hand. Later, after we’d called up every ad agency in America, we realized that people in business really were just that, in business. Maybe the CEO of these corporations cared about going eco, but Joe Schmo working the link in the chain closest to the telephone did not care about helping some first-time magazine. In a matter of weeks we had worked our choosy list of cool, eco-friendly corporations down to the recycled toilet paper brands. We had sold zero ads. Something needed to give.

Daddy Warbucks

It was a Friday afternoon and we had just gotten the last polite “no thanks” from our now-exhausted list of potential ad buyers. “What the Hell?” we thought. It had been half a year since we had blasted full-force into our project, investing an incredible (and over-achieving) amount of time and energy into our magazine endeavour. We had an amazing collection of contributors, everyone we’d asked had said, “yes,” no matter how big time they were. We didn’t get it. Well, we did: we had the skills, but when it came down to it, we couldn’t pay the bills. How the hell had Strength done it? Well, we’d found out that there had been a Daddy Warbucks. We did not have a Daddy Warbucks. Yet. Now that I recall this dark, dark period, I am sure that this was the closest to “loosing one’s grip on reality” as I have ever come.

The last granules of our dream were slipping through the cracks of our fingers. I didn’t see the bright lights and big magazine surrounding us. Instead, I saw Rachel’s messy pack-rat room. We had to do something; we couldn’t let all of our contributors down. Well, it was partly this, and it was partly fear of failing in general. All the work was done, we just needed someone to publish it! I mean, they didn’t have to do anything except fork out the money! But, who in the hell could we sell this thing to?

Our Competitor

Our so-called competitor? Maybe, just maybe, they would be interested in launching a younger, hipper magazine. So we dug up a copy of their magazine, looked in the table of contents, dialled the general number and asked for the big cheese. Was it really this easy? Yes. Yes it was.

And they really listened! They ended the conversation with “Well, it all sounds like you have a really good idea. I really will think about it and thank you for thinking of me.”

When Rachel hung up the phone we knew we would not hear back from them. Nor would we follow up because we had hit crazy level. It was time to get the hell out of the house and so we got dressed for the first time in weeks and took a walk. “I don’t know, Cara, I mean I don’t know if I can handle this! I need health insurance.” Good old health insurance. Whenever Rachel was having serious, SERIOUS doubts she brought up the old health insurance. I knew this was probably the end of our adventure in magazine-land. We had given it every last shot and for some reason we had hit wall after wall after wall. We needed to throw in the towel and admit defeat. Graduation was coming soon, so we decided just to enjoy our last week and then focus on getting REAL jobs. Real jobs. With health insurance.

But

But, of course, I knew we couldn’t REALLY give up. So we gathered up all of our “collected matter” into a book proposal, just to see what would happen and, like magic, I found the way around the walls. It was like realizing that you just had to turn left and you wouldn’t run smack into the crash barrier over and over and over again. So, Collected Matter became Experimental Eco Design and two year’s later was published all over the world by Rotovision. Of course, we worked nights and weekends getting it all together (after working our day jobs, Rachel’s with health insurance*), and going a little crazy in the meantime—but that is another story all together.

*Cara still has never had health insurance, even though she has worked real jobs now for several years.

Cara Brower randomly ended up in the graphic design program at the University of Cincinnati, mainly because it was the nearest big city to her small hometown in Kentucky. She was very excited when she later realized that it also happened to be a really good program. With its unique (and extremely long) 5 year co-operative program, Cara was able to gain a range of work experience with Doyle Partners, Landor Associates, Stoltze Design, Paul Sahre, and Open. After graduation, Cara returned to NYC to work at Scott Stowell’s Open as a certified designer. Since then she has also worked at MTV and Nickelodeon and in 2006 published “Collected Matter” as “Experimental Eco-Design”, with Rotovision. By the time this book has been published, she will have attended even more school and received her MA in Production Design at the Royal College of Art’s National Film and Television School. She may, or may not, still be living in London.

Perhaps you remember this scenario from attending a football game in high school. Your team scores and the cheerleaders throw small plastic footballs into the stands. On each ball is an ad from a local business. When I was in college at Kent State, my internship was pasting up mechanicals of those ads at a local printing company. Because you aren’t in design school in the early 1980s you have the blissful advantage of not knowing what “paste-up” is. Believe me, contrary to what old-timer curmudgeons would have you think, you really aren’t missing much. While this internship was not the least bit glamorous, I got to refine my stat camera skills (see paste-up above) and watch the high speed letterpress that used a bed of open flame to dry the ink as it came off press in what I now remember as a Beavis and Butthead meets Fred Goudy moment.

Luckily, a few semesters later I was invited to be in Glyphix, a program at Kent where a studio staffed by students designed work for local non-profits. This was certainly more in keeping with what I was interested in, although in those days before computers it seems — in my memory at least — that lots of time was spent waiting for the typesetting to be delivered (see paste-up, above).

After years of teaching I am still struck by this unspoken reality: all the weeks of effort put forth in the classroom getting ready for a final presentation is the work that would be done in a studio setting preparing for a first presentation. We need to remind ourselves of that from time to time. So, when I teach I try to critique students from a variety of viewpoints: the reality of their work in class; how things might be pursued differently in a studio situation; how it might be even more different in presenting to a client; and how design is an inherently iterative process that continues well beyond the first presentation. I try to keep the students aware of these shifting conditions as I critique.

In 1995 when I was asked to start a Glyphix-like studio practicum for graphic design students, I thought it would be a great opportunity to teach from these multiple points of view in a setting where the outcome would be especially clear. Sputnik, as the studio is known, started with two students in the fall semester of 1995 and has grown significantly since then.

Sputnik’s only client is California College of the Arts (CCA). San Francisco has a wealth of design firms with a strong sense of community responsibility and it seems that every non-profit has a designer — the last thing I wanted was to take work away (often fun and rewarding work) — from our local colleagues. Besides, I can’t image a better situation than designing for the CCA: clients who are pre-sold on the value of interesting design, who are visually sophisticated and, well…it’s an art school.

In Sputnik the students work essentially as free-lance designers in that they’re assigned projects individually and are responsible for the design and production of those projects. They present sketches and comps in class and once those are approved they present to the client. The presentations are chaperoned — either I as the faculty advisor or the College’s director of publications are at the meeting to provide backup. Presenting is often a good wake up call because the kinds of convoluted explanations often used in studio classes just don’t work. Sometimes I need to gently prod the students during their presentations (“Maybe you can talk about why you’re using this image.” “And orange is a good color for spring because…?”).

Every semester, the faculty nominate students they think would make good Sputnik staff members. I ask them to consider students who are reliable, articulate, and mature while possessing excellent typographic skills, the ability to self-author imagery, and the aptitude to effectively process criticism. This is a dream list, really, because very few students possess all these characteristics. I think I’m missing a few of them myself. We interview everyone and look at their resume and portfolio. When it comes to looking at resumes, I’m a big fan of students who have the sense to run spell check. And here’s a hint. A resume is a nice simple typography problem. If you can’t nail the design of your resume then things are looking dismal from the start.

It’s interesting how the staff comes together each time. I’m one of three votes. Erin Lampe, the Director of Publications and her assistant are the other two. And we don’t always agree. Erin, because she has far more contact with the students and has deadlines and processes firmly in mind at all times, is attracted to more mature students who she can be sure will promptly answer their email. I’m often more willing to take a chance on someone whose design skills are outstanding but whose organizational skills are questionable. Neither of us, however, want to deal with prima donnas. Things happen too fast to have senseless arguments with people, and we have to consider our clients as well. The students will move on after the semester, but we work with the same people year after year. We’re trying to build trust and rapport so that the quality of work can continuously improve. If someone’s attitude endangers that we have a big problem. Other designers often say they’re looking for an employee who’s a good fit. This can mean lots of things —someone whose skills complement those of the office, for example. But what they usually mean is that they want someone who fits within the office culture and personality. You spend more time with your co-workers than with your family. No one wants to spend the majority of their waking hours with some jerk, no matter how talented.

I think being in Sputnik and having this extraordinary degree of support and independence beautifully prepares students for the working world. Even if you don’t have the opportunity to participate in a program like Sputnik, there is a larger lesson here. Not too many people get full time jobs straight out of school. Most of the time there’s a stretch of freelancing before landing a job. Having freelance experience can expose you to the possibility that you might not need a “real” job anyway, and that perhaps there’s another way to manage your career. Freelancing is a perfectly fine option, and a good segue to opening your own studio. I wish I had realized this back when I first moved to San Francisco. I turned down a chance to design music packaging with Tom Bonauro (a hero of mine to this day!) because I wanted a full time position.

Bob Aufuldish is a partner in Aufuldish & Warinner and an Associate Professor at the California College of the Arts, where he has taught graphic design and typography since 1991. In 1995 he founded Sputnik, a student-staffed design office that produces work for the College.

With A&W Bob has designed diverse projects for clients such as Adobe Systems, Advent Software, American Institute of Architects, Center for Creative Photography, Chronicle Books, Denver Art Museum, Emigre, the Logan Collection Vail, Moore Ruble Yudell Architects, San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, and the State Compensation Insurance Fund. His digital type foundry, fontBoy.com was launched in 1995 to manufacture and distribute his fonts.

He has participated in a number of exhibitions, including, “CCA at 100: Fertile Ground” and “Icons: Magnets of Meaning,” both at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. He has lectured across the US as far east as New York and as far west as Honolulu. His work has been included in competitions and publications sponsored by the American Association of Museums, the American Center for Design, the American Institute of Graphic Arts, Communication Arts Magazine, Critique Magazine, Design Net (Korea), dpi (Taiwan), Graphis Magazine, How Magazine, ID Magazine, Idea, the New York Type Directors’ Club, and Print Magazine, among others.

Bob has a BFA and MFA in graphic design from Kent State University, Ohio.

Step 1

I went to college and studied graphic design. I managed to learn how to spec type, crop photos, use a waxer (don’t ask), drink coffee, recognize Paul Rand, make comps with markers, steal ideas from design annuals, and create a portfolio.

Step 2

I got a job. First at a little ad agency, then at a crappy little design studio designing 2-color pamphlets. After a few years of relative progress, I became a partner and eventually bought out the other guy. So…

Step 3

I had my own design studio. Now I was master of my own domain and, better yet, starting to win design awards. Things were going well and it felt pretty good. I was making decent money and driving a somewhat nice car. I wasn’t at the top of the mountain, but I could see the peak from where I was standing.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

Step 4

I realized that I was an idiot. We were working with a client that had hired a behavioral psychologist from Cornell University to help evaluate to what degree their competitors were victims of “heuristic bias.” I had never heard this term before. It simply means that people are victims of learned biases or orthodoxies. As we develop, we learn things that become ingrained patterns of behavior. These synaptic connections allow us to survive in the world and make quick and efficient decisions.

For example, a useful heuristic bias develops from learning that swimming with great white sharks can be a tragic mistake: a dorsal fin next to you while surfing = get away fast. However, this same useful bias can also lead to poor decisions. If a shark attack off the coast of California is widely reported in the national news, people will stay out of the water in New Jersey even though the statistical probability of an east coast event has not increased due to a happening 3,000 miles away.

(Insert image of light bulb going off here.)

I realized that I was an idiot. Even though I thought I was a good designer, generating copious creative ideas at will, I was actually severely limited by my built-in biases. My brain was automatically short-cutting to solutions for my work without exploring the range of possibilities available, one of which could be brilliantly unexpected and effective.

Step 5

I learn how to “think wrong.” Some people are natural wrong thinkers. They short-circuit normal biases without breaking a sweat. Picasso, Fellini, Phillipe Stark and Stefan Sagmeister are examples… damn them.

The rest of us need to work hard to get our minds to break out of predictable patterns.

The bad news is that doing this is really tough. How tough? Try talking “wrong,” out loud right now. Link words in a nonsensical sequence meaning absolutely nothing. It’s probably possible but I can’t do it.

The good news is just knowing that thinking wrong can be a useful way to generate alternative ideas is an advantage in itself.

The better news is that there are techniques and exercises that can be used to trick your heuristic mind into “lateral” thinking.

I’ll describe one of them. Next time you’re “brain storming” at the beginning of a project, get out an encyclopedia. Pick a number between 1 and 100 and another between 1 and 10. Say… 45 and 3, for example. Go to page 45 in the encyclopedia and find the 3rd word. Say… “brimstone.” Now use “brimstone” as the starting point for brainstorming about your project. Since there are no incorrect answers, go in whatever direction you want. I guarantee that you will end up someplace new and unexpected.

It might not be the right answer, but then again… it could be sheer genius.

John Bielenberg is a partner and co-founder of C2, in San Francisco, with Greg Galle and Erik Cox, and founder and director of Project M, a summer program in Maine that is designed to inspire young designers, writers, photographers and filmmakers by proving that their work can have a positive and significant impact on the world.

Since 1991, John has produced an ongoing series of projects under the pseudonym Virtual Telemetrix, Inc. that address issues related to the practice of graphic design and Corporate America. Projects have included the “Quantitative Summary of Integrated Global Brand Strategy” booklet and video produced for the 1998 AIGA Brandesign Conference, the 1997 Virtual Telemetrix Annual Report satire of corporate branding and “ceci n’est pas un catalog” which parodies designer products. The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art has acquired 6 of the VT projects and staged a Virtual Telemetrix exhibition and mock IPO (Initial Public Offering) in 2000.

John is a member of AGI (Alliance Graphique International) and is Vice President and Director of the Pop!Tech Institute.

Who are you?

Answer that question before you start to work.

School will teach you about kerning and Paul Rand, but they cannot teach you the thing that will determine whether you will be good or great. That thing is up to you. In fact, it is you. Your work needs to have your unique point of view.

Go to a party. One full of people. People holding drinks and pretzel sticks and conversation. Who are you drawn to? Who stands out? Those who express something interesting, charming, reactive; i.e. NOT the standard boring banter about weather. They are the ones you are attracted to.

To stand out, you need two heads. One is the head you fill with all the fundamental skills you learned in school. Exacto cutting, font spotting, use of the word “juxtaposition,” etc. This is the head everyone can fill if they take the standard creative professional path. But to really kick-ass and stand out at the party, you need to develop a second head which you should fill with the unique you.

Your work will stand out if you have a point of view. Everybody has unique life experiences that give them a special outlook on the world and you will find your POV in experiences that have nothing to do with your career. In fact, the more divergent these things are, the better. Maybe you were raised by a military family, or you once loved baseball, or you immigrated to the United States when you were very young. All of these experiences shaped who you are and how you see the world.

Before I was an art director, I was a lawyer. Also I have a manic interest in history and politics. These pieces form my second head, the real Jimm, and guide me when I solve creative problems. This is the core of what makes my work my own. It makes the work interesting. It makes the work human.

Law school shaped the way I communicate. I was taught to make dense concepts simple enough to relate to a jury. My choice of words, colors and images is often direct and straight to the point.

My love of history and politics lead me to create sharpastoast.com, where I supply the world’s nerds with cool T-shirts. These designs come straight from my second head and are informed by my love of history and politics. In these cases I am able to create primarily on instinct because the work is so personal to me.

Designers are professional communicators. Good creative work feels like a conversation between two people, and the more personal you can make your work, the more people it will touch. Everything starts with a knowledge of self. When this mixes with your craft, you will begin to create the work you always wanted to.

In the film “Boogie Nights,” Don Cheedle’s character, Buck Swope, spends a large part of the film socializing in different clothing styles and it is getting him down. He can’t figure out which style fits his true self: Rick James or Rhinestone Cowboy. Finally his friend, Maurice, clues him into the solution:

“Do what you dig.”

Jimm Lasser, Esq. (1974 – ) On the stormy morning of Sunday, December 9, 1974, Nancy Lasser, wife of Alan, gave birth to a boy. He was born on a bed of poles covered with corn husks. The baby was named Jimm, after Comedian Red Foxx. The birth took place in the Lasser’s rough-hewn cabin in Winnetka near Chicago, Illinois. Alan Lasser was a dermatologist and a farmer. Nancy Lasser had little or no accounting schooling and could not write French poetry. Jimm spent a short amount of time in a log schoolhouse, before graduating from the University of Michigan, Vanderbilt University School of Law, and the Portfolio Center. Jimm attended school dressed in a raccoon cap, buckskin clothes, and pants so short that several inches of his calves were exposed. Jimm earned his first dollar ferrying passengers on a Lake Michigan steamer, and designing T-shirts for the 84-year old James Toast at sharpastoast.com. He spoke out against the Dred Scott Decision, has won many decorations for valor in battle, and is now a “creative person of interest” at Wieden + Kennedy in Portland, Oregon.

One thing that continues to attract me to the study and practice of graphic design is the diversity of activities and roles it includes. Not only do we research, develop, refine, and implement designed communications, but we also work with a variety of stake holders throughout the process, such as audiences, users, clients, suppliers, printers, fabricators, etc., each with differing needs and expectations. Clearly our field is not for those who seek simplicity and certainty. Instead, we must become comfortable with complexity, contradiction and ambiguity. We’re required to trust in our process, knowing that in the end a solution will present itself.

As I have been working as a full-time design educator for a number of years, I’ve discovered another aspect of our field that seems contradictory — that the profession is simultaneously exclusive and inclusive. Specifically, gaining entrance to both study and qualify to practice in the field can be a very exclusionary process. On the other hand, the actual practice of graphic design is most powerful when an inclusive approach is used — i.e. the more input we have from various stake holders, the better our efforts serve the public good.

On exclusivity

It’s no great secret that many of the better graphic design educational programs enroll only a small percentage of those who seek entrance. As an example, the undergraduate visual communication design program that I direct at The Ohio State University admits roughly 20% of its applicants, and the percentage of acceptances to the graduate program is even less. Other recognized programs would no doubt report similar results.

There are some good reasons for our exclusivity. A majority of design graduates tend to stay in a program’s geographic area for a period of time before spreading out to other locations. Many graphic design students participate in internships with local firms which can, on graduation, then turn into full-time job opportunities. Obviously, the job market can only absorb so many new designers per year, so keeping the numbers low benefits everyone. Graduates don’t have to compete against too many classmates, and employers are fairly certain that the graduates they employ are of a high caliber. In addition, and at the risk of sounding snobbish, not everyone who thinks they should be a graphic designer is actually cut out for the job. While it’s quite clear that there are well-qualified students turned away during our acceptance process every year, I’m not so sure that there are that many more that we’d accept, even if we could. It’s been suggested that we double our numbers and take in two cohorts of students to meet the demand for our program. However, I’m fairly certain that only a handful of that second group would actually perform at the level of those currently accepted. As we have no desire to dilute the quality of our program, we’ve thus far resisted this notion, and I hope that we’ll continue to do so. So, to conclude this point — graphic design is not for everyone, and a certain amount of exclusivity concerning who is allowed to enter the field is, to my mind anyhow, mostly a good thing.

On inclusivity

Apparently, “inclusivity” is not a word recognized in all dictionaries. But let’s go ahead and use it anyway. It’s my strong belief that the more inclusive graphic designers are of the requirements of those who experience our work, the better the results are for everyone. Audiences and users benefit from clear messages; our clients benefit from more satisfied customers and constituents; and designers benefit from providing a valuable service to all. Similarly, I believe that one of design’s main contributions to society and our nation’s public life is making communications easily understood by as many people from as many walks of life as possible.

One significant example of this role is seen in a recent project sponsored by the AIGA and coordinated by Marcia Lausen, a designer and educator in Chicago. This “election design” initiative entailed taking an inclusive, user-centered approach to the design of new ballots, election administration materials, polling place signage, absentee and provisional voting materials, and voter education and outreach literature. The designers involved made sure that all materials could be easily used by those with limited abilities and from low-income backgrounds, along with individuals who spoke languages other than English. The success of this program has been documented in a book to be published in 2007, which I would urge all graphic design students and practitioners to read and consider.

The “election design” project is an example lifted from a graphic design educational program that takes a more user-centered approach. Others may involve more fine art or advertising. All are valid and necessary approaches, and many of these different programs use the exclusionary acceptance practices described earlier. My program at Ohio State has long been oriented to inclusive design, which is probably the most under-represented of the three approaches. I personally feel there is still much work to be done in this direction and invite other educators and practitioners to consider exploring this potentially more responsible approach.

So, by way of wrapping up, I’d suggest that we all think deeply about what our roles in society might be. Should our profession serve mainly the for-profit sector, or should we also put our considerable talents to use for the public good? The answer to that question may differ for each of us — but for students embarking on careers, it may offer an alternative to their expected career path. Our profession may not be for everyone, but that doesn’t mean that what we do can’t benefit us all.

Paul Nini is a Professor in the Department of Design at The Ohio State University, where he also serves as Coordinator of the undergraduate Visual Communication Design program and Past Graduate Studies Chairperson. His writings have appeared in a variety of publications, and he has presented at numerous national and international design and education conferences.

Three of my friends and I headed off to the same college at the same time. I was the only one who ended up graduating. It wasn’t that I was any smarter than the others. Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I am often dumber than a box of rocks. The reason I made it through all of the hoops and hurdles is very simple: I went in with a plan. In fact, in my high school yearbook, under future plans, it actually says, “to become a high school graphic arts teacher.” When I started college I knew what I wanted to do and knowing there was a light at the end of the tunnel made it a lot easier to get up for an eight AM class.

Our society has been doing a huge disservice to kids for a long time; as parents we have done one to our children; as teachers we have done one to our students. We have made entering college a life goal. Kids hear throughout their academic years that getting into a college should be their primary goal, and so once a kid is accepted to college, they feel they have achieved their only goal. No wonder the college dropout rate is so high. These same kids wander around from major to major with no direction. They have already met their life goal and have nowhere else to go.

What we need to tell kids is that a career should be their ultimate goal. Although we might imply this, we don’t make an effort to formalize it. Kids should first find something they have an aptitude for and that they like, and then find a career that matches it. If a four year college is a step in reaching that goal, then so be it. A two year community college might be even better for some kids. Some will even be ready to start their careers right out of high school. In any case they now have a goal that is more purposeful. It is a hell of a lot easier to get up for an eight AM class when there is a good reason for doing so.

I had a student who was incredibly talented and took several of my graphic arts classes. He wanted to go straight into the industry. He was also quite close to another member of our staff. This other teacher and I had huge debates about what advice we should give him. I felt he was ready to start his career without college. After all, the kid had a clear vision of what he wanted to do and how to get there without additional formal education. The other teacher thought he should enter college for college’s sake. After all, this is America. College should be a goal for all kids. Fortunately, I won the debate. Two years out of high school he was featured in Time magazine for his accomplishments. Four years out of high school he owned his own business and is one of the leaders in his industry.

Another student left high school and went directly to a four year school. She knew that she really liked the graphics industry, but wasn’t certain which part of it she should concentrate on. After two years of struggling with general required classes she quit the four year school and enrolled in a community college that had a good two year graphics program. It was there that she found the right direction for her. A year later she was recommended for a scholarship to attend one of the leading programs in the United States. She completed that program, entered the industry, and now works for one of the leading graphic arts software developers in the world. Dropping out of the original school had nothing to do with academic preparation and it had nothing to do with how smart she was. It had everything to do with her purpose and why she was there.

College for college’s sake should never be a goal unto itself. Young people need to find out what they like to do; find out what they are good at. They should join those two things together and find a career that matches. If college is a step to their career goals, then great. If not, who cares? Spend time in an internship doing job shadows and taking career assessments. These activities will prove invaluable down the road.

I love my job. I could not imagine going to a job each day and not really wanting to be there. I knew from an early age that I wanted to teach graphic arts at the high school level. That was just plain lucky, but it has worked out for me. Now it’s twenty-five years later and I still enjoy coming to work each day. Taking additional classes and jumping through bureaucratic nonsense may not be all that much fun, but it is a lot easier knowing that it will get me where I want to be. If all kids were to shift their focus further down the road than college, I think they would find all the little steps a lot more manageable.

Tom Danielson was born in Winnetka, Illinois. 1974 (Where all of the John Hughes films were made). He reads a lot of history books. He drew a lot of army men fighting dinosaurs. He wrote a poem at age seven about D-Day. His first “design moment” came at age three, on a family trip out west. He would scream and yell until his brother and sister held his face inches from stops signs he would see. At that point he would drift into a quiet trance. It calmed him. He now lives in Brooklyn, where he directs art.